


I'm Starsky, He's Hutch

by TuppingLiberty



Series: Tlib February Ficlet Challenge 2018 [17]
Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Doppelganger, Fluff and Smut, IT'S A JOKE, M/M, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 13:52:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13859091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TuppingLiberty/pseuds/TuppingLiberty
Summary: After Captain Dobey mistakenly calls Hutch Starsky, they decide to mimic each other for the day.FFC day 22: Doppelgangers (not actually, but kind of)





	I'm Starsky, He's Hutch

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who's still working to catch up on the February Ficlet Challenge?

Dobey’s has had  _ a day  _ already, and it’s only 11, and his wife has him on this new diet again so his blood sugar is probably low, and whoever made the coffee this morning did not make it strong enough, and anyway, these are all of his excuses, when it happens. All of which amount to a hill of beans as far as the guys are concerned. 

What happens is… the blonde walks into his office, tossing a file on his desk and starting to explain something, and Dobey nods along, and then Dobey says, “Nice work, Starsky.” 

It’s not like he doesn’t  _ know. _ He  _ immediately _ knows, watches Hutch’s mouth open to say, “I’m Hutch,” like he’s seen him do a million times before. 

Except this time Hutch opens his mouth, hesitates, and then grins in a way that lets Dobey know he’s probably going to hate the rest of his day.

“Thanks, cap,” Hutch says, in an obnoxious Brooklyn accent as he turns back around. 

“Why do I get the feeling I’m going to regret that?” Dobey mutters to his empty office. 

 

Maybe they were particularly bored today, where Dobey’s morning had been filled with meetings. Maybe if he’d been around to yell at them, they wouldn’t have done it. But he wasn’t, so here they are in front of him, grinning like loons. Hutch is sprawling in one of his office chairs, snapping gum, and Starsky is leaning against the wall, trying to make himself taller, probably. They even fucking switched shirts at some point, and Hutch must’ve dug up his ol’ undercover cowboy hat, because it’s perched over Starsky’s curls jauntily. 

Dobey eyes them wearily. “How can I help you boys?”

“Detective Hutch and I want to pursue this cold case we dug up,” Hutch says, nodding at Starsky as he continues with the ridiculous accent. 

“Lay it out for me,” Dobey replies cautiously. 

“You see-” Starsky starts, obviously trying to smooth out his natural accent, and he stops part way, making himself giggle. “Ms. Sheila Thompson was murdered down on Bay Street three years ago…”

Hutch picks up, and Christ, they have their natural rhythm, even when they’re talking like idiots and punishing Dobey this way. “And we think it connects to one down the coast a bit…”

He watches them like hawks while they play it out without any more giggles, but still with stupid grins on their faces. “Sounds solid, follow it up,” he responds gruffly, mostly to get them out of his office. 

As they walk out, he hears them use the accents on some of the other detectives, and one of their regular pick ups, a flasher named Johnny, who thinks the whole thing is hilarious. 

\------------------

It’s only later, back at Hutch’s dining table, takeout spread across it, the day over, when Starsky’s looking down at his spinach and wheat germ...something or other, and then looking longingly over at Hutch’s hamburger and fries, that he regrets the goof they pulled off all day. 

“Hut-Starsk,” he corrects himself, looking over at Hutch with the doe eyes that only work, like, 15% of the time if he’s lucky, when it comes to food anyway. 

Hutch grins at him, the shit, and takes a huge bite out of the burger. “Mmmm, the cholesterol,” he fake-moans, and Starsky balls up his napkin and throws it at his face. 

Two can play at this game, probably. Maybe. “Mmmm, spinach. I’m going to live to be 150 because of this wheat germ, but my dick’ll stop working at 60 so I’ll have 90 years of miserable eating left, and I definitely won’t regret not eating yummy food for that long.”

Hutch tosses a fry at him and he manages to catch it in his mouth, grinning widely as he chews. “And when  _ I _ have a heart attack at 40, and I’m out of shape so my dick won’t work, I’m going to regret not eating something green at least once a week.” 

Starsky relents, scooping up some some of the green stuff and chewing it down. It doesn’t go down as easily as the fry did, more’s the pity. He forks up another bite and offers it to Hutch. “Well, I guess we could always meet in the middle. Compromise, you know. That way we probably have another good thirty years of dicking.” 

“Excellent dicking,” Hutch points out, offering him the straw to his soda. 

“Sure, sure. I guess it’s worth it,” he says back with a wink, loving the faint pink blush that goes over Hutch’s cheeks. How long? How long and he can still make Hutch blush? Thank god for the small things. He eats some more of his slop. “How do you do this all day? Talk like this?” His voice feels scratchy from pretending to be Hutch. 

“I’m going to ignore the fact that that’s an ignorant question.” Hutch’s mimicry of Starsky’s accent is stupidly perfect, but Starsky’s been having such a hard time even shaping his mouth correctly. It’s been fun listening to Hutch sound like one of the guys back home, though. Maybe he’s more homesick than he thought. Maybe he should drag Hutch away for a trip to New York on their vacation time this year. 

Instead of dignifying Hutch’s answer with a response, he pulls on Hutch’s shirt - well, his shirt, not that it’s the first time they’ve shared clothes - so that Hutch leans closer, and Starsky can brush their lips together. 

It’s a move Hutch has done to him a million times, growling at him about how he walks around half undressed, showing his chest off to all and sundry. It’s not like their monogamous, so Starsky usually finds it hilarious, Hutch’s little display of possessiveness. After watching Hutch’s chest all day, though, he maybe gets it.

He leans in to find Hutch’s pulse point and suck; to be honest, there’s a  _ reason _ he wears his shirts open, and it’s definitely so Hutch can have easy access. He loves it when Hutch bruises his neck, will take the teasing the boys at the shop dole out any day if it means he got that excellent dicking last night. He grins at the thought, at the joke, and bites a little into Hutch’s skin. 

Something’s missing, though, and it’s Hutch’s breathy little moans, the ones he’s so used to. “Cat got your tongue?” he mumbles into Hutch’s skin. 

“Starsky doesn’t moan, he only grunts,” Hutch says, his accent fading a little as his voice fills with desire. 

Starsky pokes him in the ribs. “I do  _ not.” _

“You do!”

He bites into Hutch’s neck again, hoping to illicit a moan. Hutch, stubbornly, grunts, and Starsky has to laugh. “I  _ do not _ sound like that.” 

“Mhmm,” Hutch answers skeptically. 

Starsky kisses up Hutch’s bare shoulder until his lips are gliding over the shell of Hutch’s ear. “What do you want to bet I can make you drop the act, baby?”

“What’re the conditions?”

“You moan, I win.”

Hutch shudders beneath him. “And?”

“You don’t, you win.” 

“And what does the winner get?”

“An excellent dicking,” Starsky answers with a snort.

“You’re on. Your ass in those jeans has been killing me all day.” 

Starsky just grins, pulling Hutch up and dragging him back to their bedroom. Hutch’s bedroom. Whatever. Pulling his own shirt out of Hutch’s slacks is easy; Hutch hadn’t even bothered to button the part he’d tucked in. He shakes his head. “I don’t just walk around half naked.” 

“Might as well,” Hutch rumbles. 

He doesn’t bother undressing himself, just slides the shirt off of Hutch’s beautiful broad shoulders, undoes the button on his slacks, and pushes his pants and underwear down and off. Starsky gently moves him back to the bed, then topples down with him, on top of him, in love with him always.

Starsky’s dropped his accent completely as he peppers Hutch’s skin with kisses. It always gets this adorable pink-tan-red mix that Starsky will never be able to get enough of. The fine blonde hairs on his chest tickle Starsky’s nose in a way that’s utterly familiar. He noses through them, then finds Hutch’s nipple and pulls. Hutch sighs, but no moan. Amazing. 

He knows for a fact, though, that Hutch won’t be able to stay that way for long. Not with what he has planned. 

His tongue dips into the salt of Hutch’s belly button,  making his abs twitch, and Starsky has to grin. Hutch can be silent all he wants, but he’ll never be able to hide Starsky’s effect on him. Not that Starsky has the upper hand here, or anything. One of the things that’s always excited him about his relationship with Hutch is their equal footing. 

He sits back, scooting to kneel between Hutch’s legs. Hutch raises his head to look down, then just lets his legs drop open, hands behind his head, like he’s some fucking Roman patrician telling Starsky to get on with it. 

Starsky gets on with pinching his hip. “I’m not that arrogant.” 

“Mhmm,” Hutch hums again, lazily. He lets his eyes close, the message clear: _ do your worst.  _

Oh, Starsky intends to.

He shifts a pillow up under Hutch’s hips and leans in, ghosting his lips over the base of Hutch’s cock. His dick twitches, making Starsky grin as he gently cups one of Hutch’s balls in his mouth. The cool, arrogant patience that Hutch showed earlier seems to be melting away as Hutch gasps, rocking his hips a little. With a happy little sigh, Starsky spreads Hutch’s cheeks wide and settles in. 

The first indication that Starsky’s going to win this little competition is the hand that cards through his curls and then clutches at them. Starsky groans, fucking his tongue into Hutch harder, faster, obeying the push and pull of the fingers in his hair. He wants Hutch sloppy, wet, and dying for it, he wants it intensely, like his life depends on how well he’s rimming Hutch right now. 

One of Hutch’s heels digs into the flesh of his back, grinding into him, pulling him in closer.  _ Close, close, _ Starsky thinks, darting his tongue around the tight circle of muscle. 

“Starsk-” Hutch is out of breath, and it sounds amazing, but not as amazing as one of Hutch’s moans. Determined, Starsky works his index finger in beside his tongue. 

_ Jackpot.  _ The moan that tumbles out of Hutch’s lips is long and almost painful sounding, and he curses on the end of it and grabs Starsky’s curls harder, pulling up. “You better get up here and fuck me, then, baby,” he says, almost angry. Frustrated, maybe. But when Starsky meets his eyes, he’s grinning wide, and reaching for the lube on the nightstand. 

The foil condom packet hits him in the face - Hutch always has had great aim - and he wastes no time in sliding down his jeans, pulling it open, and rolling it on. With lubed fingers, he checks Hutch’s readiness, stretches him a little more, and then they’re both sighing as he sinks into Hutch, his jeans tangled somewhere on his lower legs, the black turtleneck he’d exchanged with Hutch earlier riding up his stomach, making him sweat. The heat seems intense, both around his cock, and around his neck, and in the naked limbs Hutch has wrapped around his body. 

He finds Hutch’s mouth and starts to swallow down all of those delicious little sounds Hutch is making as their hips rock together. Hutch still has a hand threaded, clenched, in his hair, but the other one travels down the black turtleneck until he finds Starsky’s hand. Their fingers weave together as they kiss, slow motions where they’re connected rocking the bed. 

Gradually, Starsky brings their connected hands to Hutch’s cock, helps him stroke it as their hips pump together. No longer holding back, Hutch’s breathy moans are continuous in his ear, egging him on, filling his mind and his heart. 

They come together, or close enough that it seems like it, anyway, Hutch spilling over their hands and onto his stomach. The red-hot heat of his orgasm clenches around Starsky and takes him over, too. 

Their hearts are knocking together, and Starsky gives himself a few minutes before he pulls out and ties the condom off, tossing it in the trash. "You know, you might be onto something, Hutch. Rabbit food and fucking, I feel  _ alive.” _

Hutch groans, swatting Starsky’s pinching fingers away. “That hamburger feels like a piece of lead in my stomach. Hey, if you’re so chipper, go get me a towel, why don’t ya?”

Starsky just grins and complies. “That’s the best part, feeling all warm and full, ready to drop out of the world for 8 hours.” He gently cleans Hutch off, then just rubs his sore belly while Hutch lets his eyes drop closed. 

Hutch grunts, and Starsky laughs back, stripping the rest of the way and snuggling into Hutch’s side to cuddle him to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
